


Bite

by SeverinadeStrango



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), Pirates of the Caribbean: The Price of Freedom - A. C. Crispin
Genre: Biting, M/M, Manipulation, Mind Games, Not Fluff, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 12:49:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12388425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeverinadeStrango/pseuds/SeverinadeStrango
Summary: Ian Mercer has been and always will be Cutler Beckett's ultimate weapon - as well as his greatest liability.





	Bite

**Author's Note:**

> An entry for Day 15 of Tumblr user horrificmemes' "31 Horrific Days v2" challenge. If you enjoy my writing, more of it can be found on my own Tumblr page - the url of which is the same as my username here.

Beckett jolted forwards a little and the signature that he _had_ been about to complete at the very bottom of the page became twice as large as he had intended as the quill followed his rather abrupt path of motion. Damn – but it was salvageable, at the very least. Considering the hour, considering the circumstances? He thought he’d held up rather well.

The letter was folded (it was all a formality, of course, a very polished and refined and rather unnecessary way of letting his opponents know that they were entirely at his mercy) and the wax was carefully melted over the edges before he sealed it with his signet ring. 

All the meanwhile, Mr. Mercer had kept his heavy, rough hand on the back of Beckett’s neck, gentle and yet threatening. He hadn’t moved for the past hour, but Beckett wouldn’t give him the _satisfaction_ of using his power over him to order him away. No, he wasn’t bothered by this – he was not bothered, he told himself, by the actions of one he had power over – and who knew that he had power over them. People did not usually push these boundaries – it was only Mercer who ever would.

Telling him to go away meant defeat. And yet letting him stay, and surrendering? That was _also_ defeat, and so Lord Cutler Beckett quite literally could not win. 

“That is all for today, my Lord?” Beckett stood, and Mercer’s hand slid from the very nape of his neck down and along the curve of his spine and it was at times like this that he wanted to just _kill_ the man, standing there with his usual hardened expression as if this was absolutely _nothing_ out of the ordinary.

But then he would have won. 

“Does that appear so, Mr. Mercer?” Beckett countered Mercer’s question with his own – two could play at this sort of game and he had _never_ been one for backing down. Even when he should have. Even when he really, _really_ should have. 

This point was only further proven when Mercer, suddenly breaking countenance, took one swift step forwards and effectively backed the Lord into his desk, and Beckett had to quickly plant his hands behind him to prevent himself from toppling over entirely. Not that he _would_ have, anyways – Mercer had a hold on his cravat and jerked him forwards once, firmly upwards. 

“You risk your health, my Lord,” he growled, and Beckett shivered. He hated that, he _hated_ it – because it was a threat. Don’t you dare ruin my work, my Lord. Your subtle efforts to dismantle yourself to spite me will not work, my Lord, so do spare yourself the agony because you know you need me you know – 

“What concern is it of yours?”

“You are _dependent.”_

“And you have no power here, _Mister_ Mercer!”

“I have more than you know, _my Lord.”_

“Try me,” Beckett hissed venomously, and then in the next instant Mercer’s lips were against his and oh god oh god he couldn’t breathe, the floor had dropped out from under his feet – where’d it go? It didn’t matter – all he knew now was that even if his legs were quite literally shot out from underneath him in that very moment that Mercer would catch him and hold him upright without fail. The man’s loyalty ran deep.

And it came at a price – but Beckett had already known that. What he didn’t know and what he _hadn’t_ anticipated was how willing he _himself_ would be to pay it, and it scared him – in fact, it terrified him.

Mercer planted one wide hand on Beckett’s chest and pushed him back so that he was lying fully flat _on_ the desk. It nearly knocked the air completely out of his lungs, but he was only given a second or two to recover before Mercer was on him again.

In their own way, they fought with hastily drawn breaths and Mercer’s absurdly sharp teeth tearing at his master’s bottom lip and Beckett could taste _blood_ but he didn’t care, all that he knew was that this was maybe the only time that he could _ever_ find it within himself to simply not think.

Any other time, he would have heard some sort of nagging insistence in the back of his head that he could be doing more, that every second he was idle was a second that his rivals could gain upon him but when he was here and restrained and _prevented_ then he couldn’t, he couldn’t possibly be making the _choice_ to lose his chance. It was out of his control. 

For all the control that he did hold, it was exhausting at times. He’d never admit that, of course. But it was, he would admit, almost relieving to have recluse from it at times. Naturally, this was one of those times. He couldn’t do paperwork without the use of his hands and subsequently his wrists, which Mercer currently had pinned underneath his _own_ hands, pressing Cutler’s bony wrists hard into the mahogany beneath them. The damned devil of a man would drown him, Beckett was sure of it, he was his greatest weakness, one of his only vulnerabilities that he constantly had to keep in check, and if he ended up being Beckett’s downfall as well?

It wouldn’t exactly be a _surprise._

Mercer pulled away sharply and Beckett gasped, his vision nearly going black for a moment as his head absolutely reeled, and as his assistant’s skilled, deadly hands untied his cravat with swift and precise movements until he could toss the thing aside and, without any sort of warning, _bite_ into the skin of Beckett’s throat. 

He screamed – which Mercer, as quick as he was, had already anticipated, and so the sound was muffled by the man’s _other_ hand. Beckett wondered how many lives this one had taken, and how many had been taken as per his very own orders, and it wasn’t exactly something he wanted to think about so it was a relief when the sting of the wound (he’d broken _skin?!)_ provided the necessary and much needed distraction. It was a distraction that made Beckett hiss in half-pain and he was very nearly tempted to bite Mercer’s hand in retort but decided against it and dug his nails into the skin at the very base of his neck again – and now he was holding fast to him, _clawing_ at him while he lapped at his master’s shallow wound as if he was some sort of creature of old vampiric folklore.

Beckett didn’t even try to make sense of this – of _all_ of this, right here, right now, and everything in the past and in the future that it implied. He didn’t want to make sense of it and that was what scared him the most – how he did not _want_ to have the power, for once, he wanted to relinquish but every _fiber_ of his being would not let him do so willingly. 

It ended when he least expected it – one moment Mercer was there and the next he was not, he was standing on the far side of the room, looking as put-together and steadfast as always with his hands (in black leather gloves, Beckett knew) clasped obediently behind his back. His master was still in a daze, lying out on his own desk on his back as he waited for the ceiling to stop spinning above him, as he waited until he came down from this terrifying high.

He called it that because he did not want to call it anything _else_ – that would tread into the realm of things that he had buried long ago, into the realm of liabilities, and with Mercer already here? The last thing Beckett needed was yet another weak point.


End file.
